Everything quaint and odd came naturally to them; even their names.

Asenath:  Marmaduke:  Kerenhappuch.

“I didn’t go about to seek or invent them,” said Mrs. Scherman, with grave, innocent eyes and lifted brows.  “I didn’t name myself, in the first place; did I?  Sinsie had to be Sinsie; and then—­how am I accountable for the blessed luck that gave me for best friends dear old Marmaduke Wharne and Kerenhappuch Craydocke?”

But down in the kitchen, and up in the nursery, there was disapproval.

“It was bad enough,” they said,—­these orderers of household administration,—­“when there was two.  And no second nurse-girl, and no laundress!”

“If Mrs. Scherman thinks I’m going to put up with baby-clothes slopping about all days of the week, whenever a nurse can get time from tending, and the parlor girl havin’ to accommodate and hold the child when she gets her meals, and nobody to fetch out the dishes and give me a chance to clear up, I can just tell her it’s too thin!”

“Ye’r a fool to stay,” was the expostulation of an outside friend, calling one day to see and condole with and exasperate the aforesaid nurse.  “When ther’s places yer might have three an’ a half a week, an’ a nurse for the baby separate, an’ not a stitch to wash, not even yer own things!  If they was any account at all, they’d keep a laundress!”

“I know there’s places,” said the aggrieved, but wary Agnes.  “But the thing is to be sure an’ git ’em.  And what would I do, waitin’ round?”

“Ad_ver_tiss,” returned the friend.  “Yer’d have heaps of ’em after yer.  It’s fun to see the carriages rollin’ along, one after the other, in a hurry, and the coachmen lookin’ out for the number with ther noses turned up.  An’ then yer take it quite calm, yer see, an’ send ’em off agin till yer find out how many more comes; an’ yer consider.  That’s the time yer’ll know yer value!  I’ve got an ad_ver_tiss out now; an’ I’ve had twenty-three of ’em, beggin’ and prayin’, down on ther bare knees all but, since yesterday mornin’.  I’ve been down to Pinyon’s to-day, with my croshy-work, for a change.  Norah Moyle’s there, with the rest of ’em; doin’ ther little sewin’ work, an’ hearin’ the news, an’ aggravatin’ the ladies.  Yer’ll see ’em come in,—­betune ten an’ eleven’s the time, when the cars arrives,—­hot and flustered, an’ not knowin’ for their lives which way to turn; an’ yer talks ’em all up and down, deliberate; an’ makes ’em answer all the questions yer like, and then yer tells ’em, quite perlite, at the end, that yer don’t think ’twould suit yer expectash’ns; it’s not precisely what yer was lookin’ for.  Yer toss ’em over for all the world as they tosses goods on the counter.  Ah, yer can see a deal of life, that way, of a mornin’!”